


Romaine Calm!

by starzandstrip3s



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Americana, Calendar Man - Freeform, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Coming of Age, DC Comics References, Farmer's Market, Fluff and Crack, Growing Up, Inspired by DC Comics, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Original Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:40:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starzandstrip3s/pseuds/starzandstrip3s
Summary: When the crop-up farmers market hits the neighbourhood for another year, all the Daye family look forward to stopping by as they do every summer. Except for nine year old Johnny, who would rather not see another pushy salesperson and their vomit-worthy vegetables yet again, and stays home instead in protest. But, when left idle, he of course finds a maize of trouble.





	Romaine Calm!

**Author's Note:**

> (Copyright Disclaimer: This work is purely a fan-made interpretation of the Batman universe, its canon elements all trademarked by DC Comics. There is no claimed ownership over any of the mentioned characters. As such, this story is made for entertainment purposes only).
> 
>   
> Hey, readers!
> 
> Here's another little snapshot fic that K. wrote this time, to be filler until Chapter Five of "Botanical Bust" comes out. (Soon!)  
> Essentially, it can be read as simply a childhood story, or another piece of lore as to the roots of our Calendar Man. We love writing for Johnny at any age, and hopefully the ridiculousness of this one amuses you, too.
> 
> Hope everyone is having a rad long weekend, too.
> 
> -M.

It was a gorgeous day. There was a warm summer breeze, no clouds at all. It was just perfect. 

That is, until _Joe_ arrived. 

Joe, I hate Joe. I don’t know who he is, or if he even exists, but what I do know is that he and his stupid traveling farmers market have been coming to our town for the past four years. And let me tell you, it’s horrible. They come and set-up their nasty old vegetable stands in the middle of an abandoned hardware store parking lot, and guilt you into buying their “homegrown” food. The first time I went, a scrawny old woman, probably one hundred and fifteen years old, kept shoving a bunch of cabbages in my face. Like, no, Margaret, I don’t want your soggy, bug-infested cabbage. 

But, for some reason, the whole town is obsessed with it. Including my family. I don’t get why though, everything is super expensive, and it tastes terrible. Mom says that I’m just being picky over _real_ food, and that I can’t live off frozen pizza and roll-ups, but she’s missing the point. Just because I love eating junk food doesn’t mean I can’t taste the real stuff for what it is. If those cabbages are as real as it gets, pop tarts are now a food group. 

Anyway, that’s why I’m home alone right now, I refused to go. Dad wasn’t crazy about the idea, since I’m only nine. But, I begged not to and told him that my cat, Poop, was acting weird, and that I couldn’t abandon him when he could maybe have rabies. Or, Gonorrhoea. He finally gave in if I didn’t leave the house, and Becca glared at me as they left. She knew I was lying, somehow. 

After they left, I decided it would be an awesome idea to make an orangesicle sundae, but we had no ice cream. Instead, I threw in a few handfuls of ice-cubes, orange, and sour cream because we didn’t have any whipped. The blender started to clog and smell funny, so now that’s buried in the trash can outside. Poop and I then went on a roller coaster, or we rode in a laundry basket down the stairs. He hissed at me, so I made a slingshot out of some of Emmy’s hair ties and a hanger and shot treats into his mouth, which made him feel better. 

An hour had passed, and I was running out of things to do. I decided that a bike ride would kill some time, and that I could be really quick. There was this bike trail I had never gone to that went through the woods close to my house. It was a challenge because of the ground being so bumpy, but it looked fun, so who cares? Telling Poop that I would be back soon, I went to the garage to grab my bike and set out. 

Soon after I arrived at a clearing, where the trail was. There were a few old pop cans scattered around a worn-down sign that read, “Cascada Trail”. On the trail ahead was a forest. The trail was straight at first but then there was a drop that led to nowhere that could be seen from here. 

Swallowing down any worries, I slowly lifted off my seat and moved back. 

“Let’s go,” I muttered to myself, tightening my helmet straps. 

I started pedalling, faster then I ever have before towards the hill. It was too late to turn back now, and I grinned at how my heart beat with every push of my feet. Seeing the edge coming closer and closer, I held my breath as the bike was thrown over a hill, or what felt like a waterfall. Shades of green flashed past the corners of my eyes, the wind felt like needles stabbing my face. Despite holding on to the handlebars like my life probably depended on it, the tires lifting off the ground, I shook from laughing so hard. My dad was going to kill me if he found out where I was, and that made it better. The hill was coming to an end, so I squeezed the brakes as a sharp bend was coming up at the bottom. 

But the brakes chose not to work. 

I kept squeezing them harder and harder but nothing happened.

“Crap!” I swore, yanking as hard as I could, but no budge. 

The sharp turn passed, and ahead of me was more woods, a pit I was heading straight into. With every cringe, the trees got closer until they surrounded everything. I was starting to lose control, but there was a grassy hill off the path. If I could have a landing there, whether on the bike or not, it seemed like a solid plan. Doing my best to swerve around the trees, which was extremely hard and anything but graceful, I burst out of the forest at an unimaginable speed, and was flung off my bike. I rolled for a bit, and then landed on my back. 

Opening my eyes, I took in gulps of air, taking in everything that just happened. Not far away, I could hear the wheels of the bike spinning. My head was the same, but I sat up to check the damage, and hissed when feeling the sting of a scrape on my knee. The side of my head was also throbbing, but who knows if it was from being thrown off the bike or the helmet. Either than that, nothing off. 

I groaned. 

“Nice. Could this day get any worse?” 

Then I heard it, the crowds of people talking, people laughing. I stumbled to my feet and walked down the hill, stopping when my senses caught up to my sneakers on the pavement. 

Cabbage.

Oh my-

No freaking-

Of _course_ it had to be that godforsaken place. 

Joe’s. 

_Goddamn._

Traveling.

Farmers market. 

A man with dark, patchy face hair and a fanny pack strolled over as I continued to be fired up at how my adventure took me to the one place I was trying to avoid all day. He had the name-tag “Joe”, and was holding a plastic bag with both hands. It had a sign taped on it with “5/$20” written on it. 

There was a long silent pause, and then he opened the bag. 

“Do you want some apricots?”

I stared at him, turned around, and walked away without a word. 

Since I didn’t trust the bike, I walked it back home. Thankfully when I got back, they weren’t home yet. But, I knew they would be soon. So, I put my bike away, went inside to wash up, and sat on the couch with Poop, who nuzzled my arm before going to nap again in the window. 

Two seconds after sitting down, the others burst through the door talking to each other. 

“Well, at least he didn’t burn the house down,” Dad chuckled. 

Mom came over and pinched my cheek, then paused as she saw my forehead.

“What happened?” 

I felt the spot, a lump now there instead.

“Oh yeah. I- uh- fell down the stairs” 

She looked at me like she wasn’t surprised, but sighed.

“Go put some ice on it. We talked about not sliding down the railing, remember?”

I whined a reply about not having ice, which was her cue to leave. She called for everyone to help bring in what they bought, and I followed along with my sisters down the porch steps. 

“Is Poop feeling better?” 

I looked up at Becca, who selected a larger paper bag from the trunk. 

“He’s a bit better,” I said cooly, grabbing a bag of my own.

“Poop isn’t sick, I was just playing with him this morning.”

“Huh. How odd.” 

She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said smoothly, walking past me and purposely knocking into my shoulder, 

“No Gonorrhoea this time, whatever that is. And no, I won’t tell.” 

Stopping in the doorway, I peek inside the bag.

Five weird, smelly apricots. 

That’s it, I’m going on a hunger strike. 


End file.
